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The Holy Ranger Poems

On amazon.com, in reference to THE HOLY RANGER: HARLEY-DAVIDSON POEMS by Dr. Martin Jack Rosenblum, a reader from Florida wrote a Customer Review that gave the book's Ranger Evopoetic Poetry a Five-Star rating, which is the highest. Here is that unsolicited Review:

"Martin Jack Rosenblum in this collection conveys the thrill of owning and riding the pride of America - the Harley-Davidson. The reader also gets a glimpse of a childhood and a life in America's heartland, and frequently draws parallels between the modern biker and the horsemen of the old west. In the past, Harley lovers have fallen back on the old saw, "If I have to explain, you wouldn't understand" as a way to avoid putting words to something embraced so passionately".
Now they can say "Read Rosenblum; he explains ... and you will understand!"

Last updated August 1,2005.

Pioneers

fearing wild beast
plain & forest
Sarah Terez
sleeps in
the hall with her head through
the doorway to our room &

Julia on her way to the water
bowl I clear my eyes :
her German Shephard ears cock
just as a Winchester 94 when
she spots my daughter's nest

then I watch my wife rise
in sleepless splender
(baby nausea in her flesh

& mine chilled/this winter's edge,

before this day starts
as light I walk
upstairs without
a lantern or fire
in the hearth
my Hawken rifle hangs
with its powder horn
upon a wall as I hunt
for a hardbound book
to lay safely

across my lap.


Physical History

I had a fever during
that deadly spring &
came closer to watch & stood in
my backyard one morning
as Cloe Younger rode up

& it is best in a ballad better
yet over a cardgame but he rode

as the fog lifed & wind
comes off the lake that
Bowie slung in a scabbard
& a carbine on the saddle
I could not
make out which
pistol it was but
I believe he was just
from Texas before hitting
Minnesota & still on decent
trems with the James Brothers

but as I
leaned forward just to wipe
mud from my boots he took
the chase & I stumbled
into our fence &
sweating took
off my hat
in disgust he would
get caught & I
had to get
into the clinic
before bleeding more than
could be replenished
from the slugs
left inside
from a
pistol that went off
in a genetic outlaw
draw:
an indistinguishable gun held by a rider that morning
& the Rebel yell
as sunlight
slit by
this fir tree when I
was brought to my
knees then vision
clearing brought summer's bloom
one night as I stood up to hear my own pulse as a
driven horse into
history's body.


When There Has Been No Fire

for some time
it can usually
be found traced

& I consider
wagontrails or
paths cut by
mountain men at

odds with
wagoneers yet
ash is the usual

distance covered
& this can be felt
as I shove my hands
beneath the leaves &

entirely past
the waist of
her slip.


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